


Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #9

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: by Storie, Wain, Ysanne, Celedon





	Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #9

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

 

CIMWC #9

**Cheap Imitation Midweek Challenge #9**

* * *

**Moonlight and Roses by Storie**   
Kick Me, Kate by Wain   
The Secret by Ysanne   
Sins of the Flesh by Celedon 

* * *

**Moonlight and Roses  
by Storie**

This doesn't exactly fit La-La's challenge, but I have a whole list of excuses. It's been a very busy week and I've hardly had time to even visit the Forum, so I'm glad I didn't miss the CIMWC altogether, and it's a thousand wonders Scherry was able to get my attention with even this little effort. Without further rambling, here is my CIMWC, sort of. 

* * *

The roses were long-stemmed, and he had care for the thorns. The florist had coated them with wax, but still they were sharp, and her skin so very fragile; Duncan wrapped the stems in layers of gauzy material, pulling a branch of foliage through here and there, leaving just enough of the cut ends bare that water might nourish the flowers without soaking and ruining the material. She could touch them now, experience their beauty without exposing herself to the threat of their defense. 

He had spoken to the nurses about the atmosphere and they had prepared the room according to his request. The harshness of the sterile white walls softened 'neath the caress of candle flame. Bouquets of roses graced tables and shelves, scenting the room with the delicate fragrance that was their exclusive gift. 

She arrived as sunset torched the sky with all the fiery colors at its command. She stared helplessly at the beauty that was everywhere. It was too much, and she wept. Duncan hastened to blot the tears from her eyes, lest splendor blurred be a moment missed, for throes of sorrow and joy are equally blinding. 

He caressed a wisp of hair, white as spun sugar and diaphanous as her gown, from her cheek. Her skin was soft and translucent as tissue, wadded and rubbed smooth. The creases ever remained, but the loveliness of what had been lingered, shining through faded eyes. The nurses had applied makeup to her face, lips and lashes, and polish to her nails. Duncan could not decide if the artificial color amounted to improvement or insult: in the brilliance of day it highlighted her features; in the fading dusk, it distracted from the exquisite elegance that time called perfection. 

The meal was of necessity a light affair, for she could no longer manage the rich banquet that had been the luxury of her youth. He partook of her careful selections, demonstrating options where twilight would throw shadows of limitations. He delighted in the precious reward of her smile. 

'Why?' She asked as the evening concluded, loathe to break the enchantment, but desperate to know its source. 'Roses, wine, a beautiful new gown, dinner by candlelight. I am painfully aware, Duncan, that my appeal as a woman has long since faded. You could have enjoyed such an evening as this with a young lady who might have repaid your thoughtfulness, instead of wasting it on an old woman who has been told she has less than six months.' 

'To live.' His voice and his hands were so strong and so gentle, touching her, loving her. 'May I have the pleasure of your company again next Friday night?' 

'You wish to date me, Duncan?' She would have laughed, but for the intensity burning in those deep, mocha eyes. A solitary tear emerged from her own, and she saw it mirrored on his face. 

'I would be honored,' she whispered. 

He leaned forward and gently touched her porcelain-pink, petal-thin lips with his own. 'Until then,' and he smiled, and was gone. 

She was filled with joy and drained by exhaustion. She had stayed up well past her usual curfew. She fell asleep as the moon began its inevitable descent toward the horizon, and those for whom waking hours yet extended ahead commented on the peaceful smile that reflected what surely must have been the sweetest of dreams. 

* * *

**Kick Me, Kate  
by Wain**

'Kate!' The man's voice drifted out the striped tent, past one player mending a costume, another tending dinner over the open fire. 

'Kate, fair maiden!' The voice was more insistent but still melodious. 'It's time for your costume fitting.' 

'Kate!' Yelling now, Walter Graham stuck his head out of the tent and glared at Duncan MacLeod. Walter blinked and put a brilliant and charming smile on his face, tilting his head and addressing the man stirring the pot of stew. ' _Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; say, I command her to come to me_.' 

The man stirring that evening's dinner looked pointedly over the fire at the newest member of the acting troupe. 'You had better go now.' 

Duncan stalked inside the tent. 'You did nae have to call me 'Kate' in front of the others.' 

Walter was sorting through the contents of two large trunks and answered without turning to face Duncan. 'If you ever hope to convince the audience that you're Kate, then you must think like Kate day and night.' 

'You're daft,' Duncan interjected. 

'Well, you've learned Kate's talent for insults. Let's work on your costume,' Walter said. He gestured at Duncan to strip and then began dressing him. 

A shift came first, a trifle too short for Duncan, full in the sleeve and square at the neck, with the blackwork embroidery broken in places and threadbare spots at the elbows. This Walter eased over Duncan's head, adjusting the shoulder seams and pushing the neckline back and forth, a frown on his face. Settling it at last, he stepped back and squinted, then stepped close to Duncan and patted him under the collarbone. 

'Could we shave your chest, just here?' 

Duncan drew himself to a warrior's posture in his shift. 'I think not.' 

Walter made a capitulating noise and wrestled his leading lady into a corset, tightening the laces until Duncan protested. Walter passed him a bumroll, which Duncan examined carefully but did not put on. 

"Don't you know how to put one of those on?" Walter asked. 

"Well," Duncan had a sly glint in his eye. "I know how to take one off a woman, but I never thought how they put them on." 

Walter put the bumroll on Duncan. White knitted stockings followed, tied above the knee with garters. 

'Shouldn't a fine lady such as Kate have silk stockings?' Duncan asked. 

'Artifice, my friend! The stage is artifice. _We are such stuff as dreams are made on._ Besides, we can't afford silk.' 

Duncan made a moue. 'I want silk stockings.' 

Walter bent double over a trunk to reach the bottom and muttered something through clenched teeth. He stood up again, a red farthingale over his arm, the stiff hoops of the undergarment arching nearly to his face. 

Duncan shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. 'I will nae wear a farthingale.' 

'Your skirt won't look right without it, bonny Kate,' Walter cajoled. 

Duncan pressed his lips together and stared at the upper corner of the tent, refusing to meet Walter's gaze. 

'God's eyes, man!' Walter said. 'You're a Scot. You've been in skirts since you were weaned.' 

'Kilts,' Duncan corrected through pursed lips. 

'If you wear the farthingale, then I'll buy you silk stockings when we pass through Kent.' 

Duncan reached for the farthingale and stepped into it. 

' _Why, there's a wench!_ ' Walter quoted. ' _Come on and kiss me, Kate_.' 

Duncan narrowed his eyes. 'Do we have to kiss? I did nae like it in practice, Walter.' 

'It's a stage kiss, MacLeod. We were leagues apart, nay, miles apart.' 

'Your moustache tickles, Walter.' He gave the farthingale a meaningful stare and made to untie its laces. 

' _How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child._ You have my word, MacLeod. No moustache.' 

He asked Duncan to practice the monologue from Act Five and busied himself with dressing him in a bodice and skirt, tugging and lacing the brocaded fabric into place. 

' _Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow_ ,' Duncan began. 

Walter walked Duncan to a stool and seated him, holding a red wig in one hand and a black in the other, alternately placing them next to Duncan's face. 

'MacLeod,' Walter interrupted. 'Don't emphasize the word 'thy'. Emphasize 'lord', 'king', and 'governor'. Here, like this.' He fitted the brunette wig on Duncan and stepped back. His demeanor softened and his face sweetened. In a warm and gentle voice, he rode the rhythm of Shakespeare's words: 

_Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow_   
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,   
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:   
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,   
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,   
And in no sense is meet or amiable. 

'I do nae understand, Walter,' Duncan said. 

'Well, Petruchio is Kate's lord, king, and governor, and ...' 

'I understand that, Walter.' He took off the brunette wig and put on the red one. He picked up the triangular sliver of mirror on Walter's table and smiled approvingly at his reflection. 'Why does she give in so easily? 'I am ashamed that women are so simple.' I never met a woman who would say that and don't think I'd want to.' 

''Sblood, man, didn't you read the fourth act?' Walter steered Duncan to the stool again. 'Prithee, fair maiden, extend your dainty feet.' 

Walter pushed and Duncan shoved, and they finally wedged his large feet into the red shoes. 

'I read it, Walter, and I can nae believe that Petruchio could want to starve her into submission.' 

Walter stood and gave Duncan a wicked smile, smoothing his moustache. 'Perhaps she's starving for something else.' 

Duncan raised his brows and looked at Walter from head to toe with a dubious look in his eyes. 'I think not. 'Place your hands below your husband's foot.' It sounds like no woman I'd want. I don't think Kate's tamed after all. I think she's set a trap, and if Mr. Shakespeare had written another act, you'd have found Petruchio on the ground clutching his stones in pain.' 

Walter took Duncan, who was still muttering plans for revenge on Petruchio, outside the tent. He made a sweeping bow to the assembled players. 'Gentlemen, I present to you our Kate.' 

He turned to Duncan then and bowed even more deeply. 'Congratulations, my dear Duncan. You'll be perfect as Kate; now you think like a woman.' 

* * *

**The Secret  
by Ysanne**

Duncan MacLeod leaned back in his chair, perplexed by the quiet temper tantrum being thrown for his benefit. He supposed he should be grateful that the tantrum was quiet, because he and the tantrum-thrower were having cocktails at one of the finest restaurants in Beverly Hills. To be precise, he was having a vodka martini and his companion was having a Shirley Temple. She was fourteen years old. 

MacLeod watched her with a mix of annoyance, amusement and sympathy. Whether the year was 1605 or 1948, being a teenager was not easy. Furthermore, being a short, plump teenager with carrot-red curly hair would be difficult enough without having a tall, slim, dark-haired mother. That the mother was in the movie business probably made it infinitely more painful. 

The whispered hysterics seemed to be ebbing, so MacLeod leaned toward the girl. 'Margaret, are you all right?' he asked gently. 'Your mother must have forgotten about our date. She's very late. Would you like to go home?' 

'She's not coming! She was _never_ coming! This was supposed to be _our_ night, yours and mine. I had it all planned out, just like a script. But then nothing went right!' 

She sat vibrating with anger and humiliation, a pink-faced vision in blue chiffon. 

'I'm sorry you're upset, Margaret. Tell me what I should do.' 

' _Make me feel like a woman!_ That's what you were _supposed_ to do – make me f-f-feel like a...' Margaret bit her lips, ruining her carefully applied cherry-red lipstick, and tears trickled down her powdered cheeks, revealing the pale freckles underneath. 

Oh, this was bad, MacLeod thought, very bad. Not only had he been oblivious to Margaret's crush, he had hurt her feelings by treating her like a child. Well, there was a chance he could redeem himself -- he hadn't been friends with Fitzcairn without learning a few tricks with the ladies. With one hand he handed Margaret the perfectly folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit, and with the other motioned for the waiter. 

'I'm afraid I've ordered the wrong drink for the lady,' he said smoothly. 'We'll have café au lait instead, and let's see....please bring us a tray of petit fours.' Dessert was always a good start for groveling. 

The impassive waiter whisked away the offending Shirley Temple and the untasted martini, while Margaret stared at MacLeod in teary bewilderment. 

'You're not mad at me?' she asked in a small voice. 

'Certainly not,' MacLeod said. 'I've been a complete cad, Margaret. Can you forgive me?' 

'Me? Forgive you?' 

'I've treated a lovely young woman as though she were a mere child. Not too many years ago I might have been horsewhipped for such an insult.' He rose and took her hand, then made a graceful, courtly bow over it, smiling into her eyes. 'I humbly beg your forgiveness.' 

A dazzled Margaret smiled back in spite of herself, and then snatched her hand away. Her cheeks grew even pinker. 'I'm not lovely,' she said. 

'Believe me, Margaret, I'm experienced enough to recognize beauty when I see it.' 

MacLeod took his seat as their coffee and sweets were delivered and offered his tablemate the pretty silver tray of petit fours. Momentarily distracted from her misery and confusion, she chose two pink ones. MacLeod chose two white ones. 

'I imagine you know that the secret of being beautiful is self-confidence,' he said casually, taking a small bite. 

'Self-confidence? Really?' asked Margaret doubtfully. She brushed icing crumbs from the bodice of her evening attire, an expensive but quite inappropriate dress that was loose at the top and tight in the middle. 

'Really,' he replied firmly. 'If you don't believe you're beautiful, no one else will. Now, today you showed a lot of self-confidence, Margaret. You planned carefully, you executed the plan in every detail, and you succeeded.' 

'No I didn't! It all went wrong, Duncan,' she pointed out glumly. 

'Ah, no. It all went as planned, except for my reaction, the one thing you hadn't foreseen. But how could you have possibly known I'd be such a dope?' MacLeod made a silly, disgusted face and Margaret giggled. 'You just need a bit more practice at anticipating the possible permutations of your social life, that's all. But you're a bright girl and I'm confident that you'll learn very quickly. Then you'll be beating the fellows off with a stick.' 

'But my hair! It's just all wrong.' Margaret yanked a handful of her wiry hair as she spoke. 'Being smart doesn't matter if you have stupid hair like this. All the b... everybody teases me about it. And Mother says I'm fat,' she added dejectedly. 

MacLeod shook his head in disbelief. This was an intelligent, articulate girl who might not be beautiful quite yet, but who had the classic bone structure to keep her looks for decades. He obviously needed to rethink his relationship with Margaret's mother. He leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. 'I'm going to tell you a secret, Margaret. Can I trust you to keep it?' 

Margaret leaned toward him, her face solemn. Earnest bright blue eyes met his across the table. 'Cross my heart, Duncan,' she vowed. 

MacLeod studied her seriously and then nodded, apparently deciding she was trustworthy. Margaret let out a whoosh of breath, relieved at passing muster. Real life was turning out to be even more exciting than a movie script. 

'A long time ago, when I was very young, I fell in love with the sweetest, brightest, most beautiful girl in my village,' he said softly. 'Her hair was bright as a copper penny, and she never could tame the curls. Sometimes she let me comb it out for her, and it was like holding a soft, living flame in my two hands. Her skin was soft as velvet and sprinkled with little freckles right over the bridge of her nose. In fact, she looked very much like you, Margaret. And she was... well, let's just say that she was _not_ skinny.' 

'Oh,' Margaret breathed, 'Did you get married? What happened to her?' 

'I'm afraid she died,' MacLeod said, smiling sadly, 'but she still lives in my memory, and in my heart. She always will.' 

Margaret dabbed her eyes with MacLeod's handkerchief and sighed. 'That's the saddest, most romantic thing I've ever heard,' she said. 'I'm so glad you told me about her. Now I'll remember her, too. Always. You really loved her, didn't you, Duncan?" 

'Yes, I did, and I'm honored to share her memory with you,' MacLeod said. 'There's one more thing I'd like you to remember, Margaret: you do have the power to choose what kind of woman you are. Will you remember that?' 

'Oh, yes! I'll remember, I really will. Everything. Duncan, I think I'm ready to go home now.' 

MacLeod stood and pulled her chair back, tucking the chiffon wrap around her shoulders as she stood. He gravely offered his arm, and Margaret took it with dignity. They walked slowly through the crowded restaurant, the tall, handsome man and the young girl who carried herself with such poise and pride. 

* * *

**Sins of the Flesh  
by Celedon**

*warning* - some controversial issues 

She had been coming to this place since she was a child, not old enough to understand what the place was, nor tall enough to see over the people who always sat in front of her. She had hated that then, because it blocked her view of what was happening at the front of the large room. Looking back now, she found it funny that she had so often wailed in protest when she couldn't see what was going on. 

The years had passed; she was now taller and older. And yet, despite the years' passage, she still came to this place of peace, to pray, to contemplate life's mysteries, to gain understanding and wisdom. And only recently, it was here that she had fallen in love. 

He had always had had a kind word for her each time she had seen the man she loved. His touch was constantly gentle, warm and reassuring. His eyes were so stunning in their greeness that it almost hurt to look at him, but as with any hunger, she did, watching his every graceful movement after listening for the sound of his footsteps upon the flagstones. Having him near was thrilling in a way she couldn't explain. It was a feeling that shot up from what seemed to be her toes to the top of her head, before bursting into the air—both hot and cold at the same time. He had been here, in this place for what seemed an eternity—for as long as she could remember, and her parents had told her, perhaps even longer. She had shrugged off such a silly suggestion. 

Parents! What did they know anyhow? 

Every day, she rushed home from school so that she could complete her chores so she could attend the evening's service. She often made up excuses as to why she needed to go to confession, and, upon her arrival, would make up sins that she could tell him, just so she could listen to his softly accented voice. With each syllable he spoke, she would close her eyes and sigh softly to herself in contentment. As long as she was near him, it was enough. 

Or had been, before now. 

Her parents didn't mind such a pious, well-behaved child and believed that God had provided them with a daughter destined to be one of the many Brides of Christ. They never questioned her outings and offered extra prayers during Mass for her. In fact, they had begun to speak of her vocation as a part of the Church with the good Father, trying to find out what might lay ahead of her in the coming years. 

When she first felt the churning emotions his presence brought out in her, she thought perhaps she had come down with something for she had begun to feel both faint and dizzy. The day it happened, after Mass, her knees had become weak as had her muscles as she stood by her would-be lover at the door. So much so that as she slowly collapsed, he caught her before he hit the floor and swept her upward into his arms. His eyes were filled with both concern and compassion she had noticed before she snuggled her head into the warm crook of his cowl. His arms were far stronger than she thought they would be, but one could never tell what lay underneath the cassock he wore, especially at a distance. 

'Madelaine,' he had informed her, 'I'm taking you to my room to lie down. I'll call your parents to come for you, but until they do, I'll tend to you.' His cheek pressed against her forehead, making her head spin even more at the sensation of his slight beard. It seemed to be a struggle to catch her breath while he held her and it felt as if she was dreaming. If indeed she were dreaming, then she silently prayed to God to not let it end. With ease, he had maneuvered her past the chairs that were lined up in silent testimony to those who sought out a place to pray and into his private quarters. 

With great care, he eased her onto his bed, disentangling her arms from around his neck before raising a cool hand to touch her cheeks and brow. 'Does this happen often?' he gently asked after sitting onto the edge of the bed beside her. When she shook her head no, he nodded. 'Perhaps you are overly tired or hungry? Have you eaten today?' 

'Yes, Father Darius,' she dutifully replied. A warm smile answered her, instantly making her flush red and seemingly burn from the inside out. Reaching out she pulled his hand away and closely examined it. She hadn't and didn't know how to tell him what her secret was or if he would return her ardor. She had been taught from early on that priests could not take wives, or have romances or have what Mama and Papa had in the night, whatever it was. She wasn't quite certain exactly what they did, but she knew enough about it that it somehow it must be something wonderful enough that was shared between two people. 

Father Darius pulled his hand away and patted her softly. 'Care for a drink?' Rising, he strode with purpose toward a small tray upon the desk, poured her a glass of water, before returning to her. 

She nodded as she struggled to sit upright then took a look around. She hadn't ever been in a priest's room before and to her, it looked a bit stark and told him so. 

The monk took a look around then slowly shook his head. 'Not as much as it used to be. There used to be much less than this.' He walked back to the desk, picked up the phone and began to dial. 'I'm calling your parents to come and get you.' 

Alarmed that the time alone with the man she loved was about to be ended, she blurted out, 'I love you!' 

The shocked look on his face lasted only seconds before calm composure settled over his handsome features again. He placed the phone down upon its cradle again. 'Madeline,' the monk said quietly, 'I love you too.' A moment passed between them as he watched the young girl before him become more self-confident in her assertion. He could see the struggle of saying it out loud for the first time as it melted into a firm belief that she indeed did love him. 'But only as God loves you,' he affirmed. 'I can't love you in that manner. Priests can't—' 

Words flew from her with swift interruption. 'It doesn't matter, you see? You said you loved me—that's what matters. We could make it work—we could! Didn't you say, didn't God say, 'Love conquers all'? It's possible!' She lunged for the foot of the bed towards him, fully recovered. She gulped hard as she watched him wrap his hands as in prayer then slowly begin to pace. 

Shaking his head as he pursed his lips, he answered, 'Not that kind of love. Priests are not allowed to have wives, or have any –' he paused, '--relationships of any kind like that. To do so would be a sin in both God's eyes and in Rome's.' 

'Then it's a sin I am willing to take!' the girl retorted. 'Please love me, Father. I'd do anything for you; I'd let you do anything to me, no matter what, just as long as we are together. We can run away where no one would find us, living and loving each other till we die!' Her hands reached out to him in entreaty as her blue eyes beseeched him to please, please love her. 

He halted for a moment, looking at the child-woman in front of him, feeling the stirrings of something long hidden while tendrils of memories from fifteen centuries past plucked at him. He swallowed hard and was still. 

Five minutes passed. 

To Madeline, it seemed like it was forever. 

Finally the holy brother asked, 'How old are you?' 

Immediately came the answer. 'Sixteen.' 

'Sixteen?' The man slowly sank into a chair next to a chess set and bowed his head. _So young, so inexperienced, so utterly enticing,_ he found himself thinking. Taking a deep breath then releasing it slowly, he nodded. 'Let me tell you a story.' 

Madeline sat back on the bed, with eyes narrowed and waited. She had always enjoyed Father Darius' stories—he had always told them in such a way that one could almost believe he had been in the time and place his stories took place in. One more story wouldn't hurt. Just one more, before they'd leave to start their lives together--somewhere they couldn't be found. 

'Long ago, centuries ago, lived a man, a great general. His armies had conquered most of the then civilized world, not once, but several times over the course of several years.' 

'I thought Rome did that.' Despite herself, the girl was intrigued. 

'They did,' came the reply. 'But even Rome was not as mighty as the general's armies. After awhile, Rome also fell to the general and his conquering hoard. You see, the general loved his power, the bloodshed, the thrill of war. His men as well as himself plundered, robbed and ravaged the countryside that they went through. Women, girls, and young boys were collected and herded like cattle to be used by the men as they saw fit. Those who did not surrender themselves willingly, were taken by force.' 

A gasp slipped from the child-woman's mouth. 'By force?' 

The monk closed his eyes as he nodded. 'Yes. Raped.' His eyes opened to meet hers. 'Even the general took great pleasure in the taking of the women—he always had the best ones reserved for him. Many of the women tried to kill themselves rather than face a soldier's pleasuring upon her.' He paused again. 'Most never were able to. The soldiers took them before they had a chance to do so. Some soldiers even took those who had managed to escape them by suicide, in death.' 

A long, heavy silence seemed to fill the air until the holy man continued. 'All throughout what is now called Europe, the land was laid waste, the women and children raped, the spoils and riches of those peoples they conquered, were plundered. The general was very good at what he did—-he was a master at determining the hearts and souls of his men and how best to have them serve him. His armies pushed onwards to the sea until something happened.' 

Madeline pulled her thumb away from her mouth and inspected her freshly chewed nail. With eyes wide, she nervously inquired, 'What?' 

'Just outside of what was then the homeland of the Parisii, not too far from where we are now, he met a old woman. She told him things about himself that she had no way of knowing for they had never met, yet all that she said was true.' 

'It had been a long march; the general wanted to take this bit of land for his own as well as all the other lands he had already conquered. It stood in the way of his march to the sea and he was determined that no one would prevent him from obtaining his goal.' The monk shrugged slightly. 'The old woman refused to let him pass into the gates of the city and refused to allow the conquering general passage to the sea.' His eyes looked upwards towards the simple crucifix on the wall as if he were remembering something in the distant past. 'The old soldier became enraged at the woman's presumption that she could stop him as well as his thousands of men, just by saying a few simple words he didn't understand.' 

Madeline crawled closer to the end of the bed, fascinated yet enthralled at the look on the man's face before her. The calm composure had slipped from the man's face, having been replaced by a jaw set in steely determination and flashing eyes. All mannerisms of a peaceful, harmonious lifestyle seemed to have disappeared from his demeanor which had been there only minutes before. 

The man who sat in simple robes before her swallowed hard, glanced back at the crucifix then crossed himself. In a slightly hoarse voice he went on. 'He removed her legs with one swift swipe of his sword, so that the old woman couldn't run away from his wrath. She didn't cry out; she only prayed for the man. Then he took her by force in as many demeaning ways as he could. She continued to pray louder for him throughout it all. Next, he took her hands, so that she couldn't defend herself or pray and once that was done, took her voice so he couldn't hear her words.' His voice shook. 'Still she managed to pray in such a way that he knew that that was what she was doing.' 

'She didn't die?' The young girl had pulled her fist from her mouth long enough to ask her question then replaced it as she waited for the answer. 

'Not then. She prayed for the general with her eyes once she no longer could speak so he took those from her too. Her last words before he took her voice had been, 'Peace be with you.' Then he took her heart to render her faith from her and her vow to not let him pass through the gates of the Parisii homeland. Finally, he took her head.' 

Madeline cringed with tears in her eyes at the vivid image she could see in her mind from his words. 'OH!' she exclaimed, then began to sob. 'The old woman! How could he!' 

'It was war,' came the simple reply. 'Things happen in war. I hope you never experience them in your lifetime. Things beyond imagination, things that happen that make you suspend your beliefs because it is too horrifying to think of, especially when you know that it is true.' 

'What happened to the general? Did he ever get to the sea?' 

'He never left the gates of the Parisii homeland ever again in his lifetime. You see, faith and God's love changed him. He swore off pleasures of the flesh after the old woman died, too ashamed of his actions against her and all the thousands of others who he had crossed paths with in his lifetime. His personal atonement for his actions was to ensure that peace comes to the world, one small action at a time. It will take time, but someday, it will come true.' In two rapid strides, he swooped downwards, forcing a long, hot and lingering kiss upon the girl. 'Speak of God's love, Madeline and not that of the flesh. I can't love you. I made a vow a very long time ago and I intend to keep it.' 

Dazed and confused, with fingertips delicately touching her bruised lips, the girl squirmed out of his grasp and jumped out of the bed, sobbing as she made her way to the door. She paused as she jerked the door open then looked back over at the man she thought she loved. He wasn't who she thought he was. Not at all. The realization made her cry all the harder. As she slammed the door shut, the familiar, yet now haunting voice followed her out. 

'Peace be with you.' When the robed man heard the chapel door slam, he dropped heavily to his knees in front of the crucifix, quietly remarking to his God, 'Father, forgive me for I have sinned...' 

* * *

Home 


End file.
